


Late Longings

by brodayhey



Series: Handholding [2]
Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Book, Gen, Holding Hands, M/M, Middle-earth POC, Past Character Death, Post-War of the Ring, Whelks, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 06:10:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5153192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brodayhey/pseuds/brodayhey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins makes a belated confession.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Late Longings

**Author's Note:**

> Book Bagginshield won't leave me alone, and instead of working on Béag like I promised I would, I am back here. Have a little drabble :~)  
> This can make sense without reading Rough Drafts, but would probably be more enjoyable if you have read it.  
> Once again, there is no movie canon here.

The Summer on the Bay did nothing to warm the wizened old Hobbit. He was seated before a roaring fire, rocking gently on his tough toes. Flames had burnt the elven stonework of the hearth black. Sparks flew towards the shriveled fellow. He did not flinch, nor did he wince if the sparks leapt too close to the dark hair thatched upon his feet. One could say he was used to much larger fires, hotter and from a more dangerous source. Or perhaps his head was too addled to register the danger. He was an old little fellow, after all. He stared intently at his gnarled fingers, nut-brown and work-worn. He had the hands you would expect on a hobbit his age, but for the many scars and calluses on them. They were marked by clattering rocks and stinging whips and sharp blades (goblin ones, but dwarf and elf ones as well). Chipped dwarf-stairs had marked him with scrapes, and brambles and burs and branches from the Greenwood had left their mark much more pronounced than expected. Flames harsher than the ones in the grate left pinkish scars that never quite faded. Calluses that came along with working with a short sword ran along his palm.

Mr. Frodo Baggins, most recently of Tirion, had stepped quietly into the little sea cottage to this sight. He followed his Uncle's gaze to his hands, and wondered what he was thinking about. Frodo had been gathering whelks along the shore, watching the wheeling of the birds, and wincing and skittering away every time the surf got too close. Elven folk periodically visited the cottage on the shore, leaving homage to the Ring-bearers, mostly in the form of food. (Frodo had a feeling that his Lord Elrond had put in a good word on his behalf). Yet finding his own food, while satisfying in the sense of accomplishment, also gave Frodo and excuse to leave the pressing tension of the sea-side cottage. A shade of death lay over the place, though Mandos had not yet called anyone within. While Frodo wandered the beaches of Eldamar, he had been wondering how much longer he would have to wait.

It had been weeks since the Lady of Light made her offer.

The Lady Galadriel had made a request for Frodo to come further inland, to journey deeper into Aman in order to find healing for his Morgul wound. And if that did not work, then to find some peace in the quick pace of time in Valinor for those without the longevity of elves, and wait for his final journey to Mandos' Halls. However, the hobbit did not dare move yet, with his Uncle in such a fragile state, living out the last days of his life. Frodo would not travel past the Bay, not until his Uncle was delivered to those Halls, and whatever came after. And so the days passed. The two hobbits on the shore ate, drank, and slept, waiting for the inevitable.

After his short trip to the shore, Frodo set his bag (not as full of whelks as he had wished), on a rough-hewn table by the door. He winced at the clattering the shells made. His Uncle could have been sleeping, as Bilbo had been doing very often, so he had tiptoed as quietly as he could (which was very silent indeed) across the threshold. When he saw, however, that the old hobbit was awake, he called aloud a greeting, loud enough so that even age-addled ears could hear.

Bilbo looked up at this, stirred from his musings, and beckoned Frodo with one of the hands he had been studying so intently. Frodo expected a smile from his Uncle, some vague, slurred remark through his withered lips. He was used to this: odd statements and questions that he would simply nod along to, making encouraging noises. One hundred thirty-three did not suit a hobbit, and Bilbo hardly functioned well. This time, however, on this one afternoon, Frodo was surprised to see some clarity in Bilbo's cataract filled eyes. Clarity, at least, behind the wash of tears. His face's wrinkles were carved deeper with the frown of his full lips. The elderly hobbit looked down again, his voice catching as he said,

“You’ve been gone so long, my lad. I thought you were lost.”

“I was not gone so long,” Frodo replied. He hesitated near the door, not sure whether or not he should approach his distraught Uncle. He wondered how long this mood would last: Bilbo had been having trouble keeping up with how he felt. He often just lost the drive to feel anything. Instead, he slept or stared into emptiness for hours. “Just since midday.”

“I woke up, and you were gone,” said Bilbo.

“I should have left you some sort of note, I apologize.” Bilbo could have hardly read the note with his old and tired eyes, but he looked satisfied with Frodo’s answer. Despite that, Bilbo’s eyes were still wet, his hands shakier than usual.

“I thought you were gone,” Bilbo repeated. He shook his head, but did not attempt to blink out his tears.

“Why are you crying, Bilbo?” Frodo asked gently. He still teetered on his toes, not sure if he should reach out to his Uncle.

The hobbit huffed out a shaky breath. "I am old, and tired, my boy. I hardly know what is going on anymore… I forget where we are. It is most frustrating. Every morning, I wake up and think for a few seconds that I am in Bag-end, or in my rooms in Elrond’s palace. Who knows, me dear, how long I will be able to speak to you like this.”

“Bilbo?”

“I lose my train of thought, I forget how to speak. I cannot write. Nothing works like I wish it would. My body is failing me. I woke up from my sleep earlier, and I,” Bilbo’s voice caught, he tossed his head again. His lips trembled. “I thought for one moment that if I turned to my right, I would see him sitting next to me. How strange, I thought, that I woke up without his hand in mine. And then I remembered.

“Sometimes I wish I had died with him, you understand." Bilbo flexed his old, twisted fingers with difficulty, tightly grasping something only he could see with his dark eyes. He sniffed loudly.

Frodo frowned, and finally crossed the room to his Uncle's side. Crouching to his knees, he took the hand that Bilbo had been gazing at, threading their fingers together.

"Uncle, what ever are you talking about?" he asked. Bilbo was wont to say strange things, but none so strange as this. Shunned by all relations, stretched beyond his years by the power of the Ring, Bilbo had gone through it all, he had survived and found peace. Frodo could not imagine why his Uncle wished for death. "Died with who? What made you think like this?"

"I'm getting nearer to the end, Frodo-lad." Bilbo smiled, though it did not reach his eyes. "Do not think that I am unaware of this. I sit here, and wait for whatever lies beyond Mandos’ Halls. Most of the time I cannot feed myself… cannot relieve myself… It is much better to dwell. On the past, that is. What I can remember. I remember him. I think of what could have been, how things should have been."

"How is that, Uncle?"

"You read my memoirs. Even those rough drafts I never threw out, and forbade you to read (don’t think I did not notice!). You understand.”

"Thorin Oakenshield.” Bilbo nodded, and Frodo continued, “You wish you had died with him?”

“Oh! oh!” the hobbit sighed. “I would rather have lived, of course, but death at his side would not have been a tragedy. A better ending to the tale.”

Frodo looked down at their entwined hands: Bilbo’s crooked and gnarled, Frodo’s smooth and young, perfect in spite of his missing finger. Still yet to age, beholden to the power of the Ring.

“He died holding your hand,” Frodo recalled quietly. Bilbo’s tears had ebbed slightly, but they began to flow again as the old hobbit began to sob. He nodded his head, and shook in the arms that Frodo had wrapped around him.

The hobbit shuddered and choked, but Frodo still heard him cry out,

“I loved him. Oh! I loved him!”

Frodo held his uncle, and stroked his coarse, thinning hair. It took time, but Bilbo's crying subsided, as did his shaking. His tears were all wrung out, and the fire in the grate no longer roared. Quite some time had passed, and it only crackled slightly. Bilbo sat there, swaying slightly as Frodo loosened his hold on him. He kissed his uncle on his withered forehead, and drew back, holding him at an arm's length.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Bilbo blinked slowly, his eyes filmy and clouded, pupils whited out. He smiled slightly, unmindful of the tear tracks running along his wrinkles. "Sorry for what?"

"You were—" the ring-bearer cut himself off. His Uncle's periods of clarity never did last long. The forgetfulness was ever-present, and it invaded at the worst of times. "Never you mind, Uncle Bilbo. Would you like me to prepare something to eat?"

"Oh, yes," said the hobbit. "Thank you, dear..."

"I’m Frodo, Uncle. Your Frodo."

Bilbo nodded , and looked away, humming some old forgotten tune in his high voice. He looked back down at his hands.


End file.
